


Too Far From Where You Are

by IdrisSmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:50:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/pseuds/IdrisSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if, what if things had gone differently – what could it have meant for Sherlock and Molly? What if he had written her letters that he never sent? What if she had never gone on a second date with Tom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Far From Where You Are

**Author's Note:**

> When I have bad days, I like to listen to Westlife – probably silly and they’re probably no longer relevant to a lot of people. But, there’s something comforting about their music and their voices. It’s like going back to simpler times and remembering fond memories. And they tend to inspire me quite often, so, I decided to write this based on one of their songs.

He looked at her, searching for the right words to say – but, nothing came to mind. He was drawing up a blank. Her hand was in his, gently squeezing his fingers, giving him comfort her didn’t even know he needed. For a moment, for just one moment, he wanted to stay – he didn’t want to go. Still, he knew he had to.

 

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” She said, her voices sounded calm, but he noted the tears that was threatening to fall.

 

He swallowed, hard. Not able to even say his own goodbye. He simply stood. He wanted to tell her to wait for him; he wanted to tell her that he would be back. He wanted to ask her to come with him, wherever he was going. He would keep her safe. He didn’t say it; he just sighed and nodded, allowing a thin smile to spread on his face.

 

“Mr Holmes,” An immaculately dressed man who had been standing not two feet away, giving them space spoke, breaking the spell Sherlock was under.

 

“Yes,” He answered, not looking away from her.

 

“It’s time to go,” The man said, his tone was neutral, unaffected by the turn of events before him.

 

He nodded in the same time giving her hand a gentle squeeze, still unable to look away. She nodded back at him. They spoke without words; they didn’t need any of it, not even one.

 

He reached up with his free hand, brushing away a couple strand of hair that had fell loose, tucking it gently behind her ear. She closed her eyes, a tear finally rolled down her cheek. He leaned, brushing his lips ever so gently on her forehead before reluctantly pulling his hand, himself, away from her.

 

“Molly,” He said her name aloud, he promised he would be back, but he feared that if he didn’t say her name right then, he might never get the chance again.

 

She didn’t open her eyes, not until she heard the last and final sound of his footsteps faded from her ears. They never said the words, not even once and they never even promised a thing to one another, yet, it felt like they were lovers forced to part by the world.

 

Are they?

 

\--

 

_9 th July, Berlin_

_Dear Molly,_

_How are you?_

He never got passed that line, stashing the postcard into a duffle bag as a young woman in a military uniform approached him, handing him a file without a word.

 

\--

 

“Molly, you can’t leave me hanging, I need a wing woman,” Meena whined, flinching when Molly pulled out the spleen from the deceased woman on the slab.

 

“I can’t, I’m busy,” Molly replied boringly, writing down a few notes as she did.

 

Meena sighed, “Molly, he’s gone,”

 

‘He’s not,’ Molly’s brain protested, but, she didn’t say what was on her mind. “I know, it’s not about him, I just don’t feel like going out,”

 

“Come on, ask you hot doctor friend to come along, you haven’t been out in a long time and neither has he, people had been talking,” Meena insisted, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

Molly stopped in her track; she hadn’t spoken to John in months not since, not since Sherlock, “I’m sure he’s fine,”

 

“He’s not, he’s pleasant, but fine he is not,” Meena said, “He came in for a couple of shifts every week and he’s not the same, people have noticed,”

 

Molly didn’t say a word, placing the spleen back into the body gently before removing the latex gloves from her hand. She stepped away from the slab, much to Meena’s relief.

 

“Molly, I get it,” Meena was getting irritated, Molly could tell, “He was friends to the both of you and he died and you miss him,”

 

‘It’s not that,” Molly thought privately, “Okay, what time is this welcoming party for the new nurse will be?” She relented at the end.

 

Meena rolled her eyes, “You should learn her name before the party, its Mary Morstan and we’re meeting at the bar around the corner,”

 

“Mary, got it,” Molly nodded.

 

\--

 

_23 rd November, Pyongyang_

_Dear Molly,_

_I hope you’re well, I’m a world’s away in a place stranger than I expected to be. I_

 

“Mr Adams,” A sharp voice, thickly accented, startled Sherlock, making him hastily shove the paper under the pile of files before him.

 

“Yes,” He did his best to hide his irritation.

 

“We’ve prepared what you needed for departure at eighteen hundred and please tell Mr Holmes to consider this our debt to him paid in full,” Cold, resentful, Mycroft had made allies as much as he made enemies and Sherlock wasn’t sure in which category the man Mycroft had sent him to was in.

 

He simply nodded, “I’m sure he knew,”

 

The man turned on his heels, leaving Sherlock to gather what few belongings he had together. He only had a few short hours to slip into another role. Mr Adams would cease to exist – he was never there in the first place.

 

\---

 

“So,” John said awkwardly

 

“So,” Molly replied, taking a short sip from the coffee. The cold air was pleasant today.

 

“Don’t know if you’ve heard,” John rubbed his bare hand together, “Greg said he’s hosting the Christmas party this year,”

 

Molly nodded, “Yeah, I got the invitation,”

 

“Are you going?” He asked, feeling slightly melancholic at the idea of the Christmas party would not be held at Baker Street this year. The end of a tradition.

 

Molly hesitated, “Not sure, maybe. Are you?”

 

John laughed nervously, “Uh, yes, I was thinking of asking Mary to come with me,”

 

“Mary Morstan?” Molly asked, surprised and at the same time happy for her friend – if she was still allowed to call John her friend.

 

“Y-yes, do you think she’d come?” John was unsure of himself – that was new, he was always the womanizer and Molly knew this for a fact, even if she was never at the receiving end of one of his flirtations.

 

A smile formed on Molly’s face, “Don’t worry, she’d say yes,”

 

She wasn’t lying, the few times she actually had gone to have coffee with the nurse, Mary had not stopped talking about John. Molly had feigned ignorance the best she could at the same time boasting about John.

 

“Good, good,” John nodded, a small smile played on his lips.

 

And Molly thought she had never seen John happier.

 

“Molly,” John called, his expression turned sour.

 

“Yes?” She answered, worried.

 

“Is it wrong?” He asked, “Is it wrong to be happy when he’s no longer here?”

 

_He_. She knew who the ‘he’ John was referring to immediately. They never said his name anymore; he was starting to feel like a dream. It was as if he was never in their lives to begin with.

 

She shook his head, “No,”

 

John opened his mouth to say something else, but, the beeping sound of his mobile stopped him, forcing him to pull out the vile innovation out to check the incoming message.

 

“I have to go,” He said, regretfully so, “I have a patient,”

 

“Go, don’t worry about it, I have to go back to the lab myself,” Molly pulled her best smile, ushering John away.

 

He got onto his feet, “It’s not wrong for you to be happy too, you know,”

 

“I know,”

 

\--

 

_25 th December, Paris_

_My Dear Molly,_

_Happy Christmas._

 

\--

 

“This is ridiculous,” Molly whined, pulling on her dress that was far too short for her liking.

 

Her companion rolled her eyes, “It’s not, and you said you’d help me out,”

 

“Yes, but, this is not what I had in mind when I told you I’d help you,” She protested, getting frustrated by the dress and the situation she was in.

 

“Molly, it’s only a club. Not like I’m leading you to the gates of hell,” Her friend said sarcastically.

 

_‘It’s probably better if you are,’_ she protested in her head, making a mental note to never agreeing to help anyone with anything ever again, until...

 

“Molly?” A familiar voice caused her to turn, eyes widening in surprise.

 

“John!” She practically shouted the man’s name.

 

John started to laugh, “Well, yes. Last I checked,”

 

She blushed, “No, not what I meant,” and sighed, “What are you doing here?”

 

“Um... Birthday party thing for Mary’s friend or a friend of a friend, not sure,” He answered, pointing at the crowd towards another far end of the club that looked that they were actually having fun and belonged there, “Why are you here?”

 

“My friend, Ann – “ She tried to answer, unsure whether John could hear over the blaring music, “Where did she go?”

 

She started to panic, not being able to find her friend in the crowd. Silently cursing in her head as well, knowing very well that she shouldn’t have come in the first place. She hated clubs; it was never the place she would ever go to, not even during her Uni years.

 

“Why don’t you join us?” John offered, “And here,” He added, shrugging his jacket and handing it to Molly, noting her obvious discomfort over her dress.

 

“Thanks,” Molly said, grateful, taking the think jacket from the doctor. She was not one to wear anything too revealing without reason.

 

“Come on, I think Mary spotted you,” John chuckled, motioning towards the blond who was happily waving at them.

 

\--

 

_6 th January, New Mexico_

_Dear Molly,_

_I found this place around the corner of where I’ve been staying. They have the most atrocious collection of jumpers I have ever seen._

 

\--

 

Molly sat, starring at the frosted cake before her. She had turned most of the lights in the flat saved from the one in the living room. Her eyes wander for a moment, tracing the scratches on the table and taking in the view of the room. She could almost see him standing there, with his goggles on, pouring one tube of chemicals into another.

 

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock,” She whispered to the thin air, “Wherever you are,”

 

She blew the lit candle softly, making a wish of his health, his safety and his return.

 

_‘Just comeback,’_ she prayed.

 

\--

 

_‘By Molly Hooper, MBBS...’_

 

Her name caught his interest immediately; he ripped the note that was attached with the printed paper without a second look.

_‘You’re welcome – MH’_

He read the words, he research a thousand times over. He smiled; imagining her in the lab, taking samples and hacking open a bone. It was not something a man would usually picture a woman of Molly’s built would do, but, Sherlock had known her for too long to think she was this fragile thing. No, she was not fragile, she was smart. She was strong, she was wonderful and she was everything to him.

 

\--

 

“It’s Tom,” The taller man awkwardly reintroduced himself to Molly.

 

She nodded, smiling pleasantly, noting the similarities between him and someone who the world thought was long gone. She kept the observation to herself; she kept the thoughts of that particular man within her memory.

 

“Yes, sorry,” She apologized quickly, “I can be bad with names sometimes,”

 

He smiled at her sheepishly, “Oh, that’s fine, would you like to have coffee?”

 

“Huh?” She was surprised by the question, having spent the better part of the year locked up, she was not used to men asking her out – or, it could be they had and she had just consistently blocked them out or ignore the question.

 

“Coffee,” Tom said, “Would you like to have coffee, with me that is,”

 

A faint blush crept onto her cheek; she was not used to be caught off-guard, “Yes, sure, of course,”

 

\--

 

He knew he had broken a bone; his rib was throbbing as he struggled to catch a breath. Yet, he was unwilling to stop. He had to get out, he had to get out fast or else he would be as good as dead, or else he would actually be dead.

 

“Mycroft,” He breathed into the mobile in his hand, “Extraction, now”

 

He was playing with his own life, betting on how many more near death experience he could toy with and he knew it was bad. He knew he shouldn’t risk his life the way he did, still, it was the only way. He had to keep them safe; he had to keep her safe.

 

“Sherlock,” Her voice was firm in his head.

 

He groaned, trying not to move more than he should as he felt as if the broken bone was cutting into his flesh.

 

“You have to stay awake,” She reminded him, “Do you hear me?”

 

He didn’t, he was losing sense of time, space – he was dreaming.

 

And then, a sharp blow to his cheek woke him up. He resented it for a moment until he saw her face. She was in her lab coat; she was always in her lab coat. And that atrocious jumper of hers.

 

“Molly,” He mumbled.

 

\--

 

“So, how was the date?” Mary asked, sipping the tea idly.

 

She and Molly, had, surprisingly hit it off after a few chance meeting. Now, even without John in tow, the two would usually find themselves together, sipping tea and enjoying conversations on morbid topics. Molly liked that Mary had a sense of humour as dark as hers.

 

“It was fine, he’s not bad,” She admitted, playing with the handle of the teacup.

 

“But, he’s not Sherlock,” Mary’s guess was dead on.

 

Molly shook her head, “Not that, he’s wearing the clothes Sherlock would normally wear, he towers over me like Sherlock did and it was just I am not sure whether I like him for him or it’s because he reminded me of Sherlock,”

 

“Do you even like him, I mean, whether he reminded you of Sherlock or not?” Mary asked, part of her wished she had known Sherlock. From what little she knew from Molly and John, Sherlock sounded like he was someone she, Mary Mortsan could like.

 

“He’s nice enough,” Molly said, “But, no,”

 

Mary nodded, not a single judgment. Perhaps that was another reason as to why Molly was far more comfortable talking to Mary who she had only known for less than a year than Meena, her friend since her Uni days.

 

“You’ve got your answer, you don’t need to force yourself to move on yet Molly,” Mary patted Molly’s arm lightly.

 

Her comment earned her a chuckle from Molly, “Funny, you’re the only one who’d say that,”

 

“Everyone heals in their own time,” Mary said simply, “You just have to figure out how much time you need, don’t listen to others,”

 

“What if I never get over him?” Molly asked, feeling silly that at her age, she needed counsel due to a broken heart.

 

Mary, to her benefit, remained a sensible listener and adviser, “You don’t have to, you just have to learn to live in a world without him and make the best of it,”

 

\--

 

“Broken rib, cracked skull, concussion, torn ligament, multiple abrasion, Mr Allen, you’re lucky to be alive,” The doctor said, shaking his head at the man who was lying boringly in the hospital bed.

 

He didn’t say a word; he simply starred at the ceiling of the facility. It was not as well equipped as the hospital back home, but, at least the doctors were competent enough.

 

“We’ve receive request from your family members and seeing you’re stable, you’ll be on the next available flight to Glasgow,” The doctor added, tapping his pen impatiently on the clipboard, irritated he was largely ignored.

 

Glasgow, he was going to be close. So very close to where she was. He wasn’t sure if he could – perhaps. Could he? Maybe? He could go home for a while, could he not? No. He knew better. He cannot risk her life, not when he was too close and bringing down the house of cards Moriarty had built.

 

\--

 

“Miss Hooper,” A stern voice startled Molly from her daydream.

 

She was just thinking of that person, the person, wherever he was – she was still praying for his safety. He needed to be safe; she needed him to come back. Whatever he would come back as, she would accept him, she just needed him.

 

“Mr Holmes,” She replied, using a formal way to address the man.

 

They weren’t friends – that much she knew. But, they were a little more than just acquaintances. They were the only two people who really knew Sherlock had survived. Mycroft trusted no one and despite having a number of men and women at his disposal to cover up Sherlock supposed death, he had agreed on Sherlock’s decision to include her. To some extent, Molly understood that Mycroft trusted because of Sherlock.

 

“A car will arrive to pick you up at seven tomorrow, your schedule had been cleared for the next two months,” He told her, not saying more than that.

 

She simply nodded; not asking what was it that he could want of her. She chose not to ask much, it wasn’t as if she had other things in her life other than work and frequent tea meetings with Mary and sometimes John.

 

\--

 

Sherlock groaned, trying to sit. He hated lying on his back and that was what he had been doing for the better part of the past two weeks. He needed time to heal, he knew that. His eyes caught the gold band that was added to his finger sometime before he reached the hospital in Glasgow. He was no longer Mr Allen; Mycroft had set up another identity for him quite smoothly.

 

He was a Mr Scott W. Hooper (Sherlock was surprised at the choice of name, but, didn’t say anything), a businessman who was in a traffic accident. Married, no kids and his wife was flying in from London, due to arrive any minute. He wondered who Mycroft had to pay to play his loving and doting wife until he spotted her, walking straight to him.

 

“M-Molly?” He said her name aloud for the first time in months.

 

He blinked, brushing his eyes, trying to figure out whether she was a mirage, a figment of his imagination.

 

“Hi,” She said, standing by his head.

 

“Dream?” He managed to spout a word.

 

She shook her head, “No,”

 

“You’re really here?” He asked, afraid to believe she was real and not just his hopeful wishes.

 

She nodded this time, “Yes, really here,”

 

“How?” He asked another question, even when he knew how.

 

 

“A mutual friend,” She answered, not saying the name aloud, but, they both knew they understood each other perfectly.

 

He kept his expression blank, still too afraid to reach out to her. Afraid that her feelings for him that he knew of all along would change if she knew what he had done in her absence, instead, he asked, “How long do you have?”

 

She didn’t give him a straight answer, “How long do you need me?”

 

No words, he gently pulled her to him. She obliged, leaning to brush her lips over his. He was meant for it to be a chaste kiss, but, lost all his senses the moment he tasted her lips. To others, she looked like a concerned wife, glad to see her husband’s alive. But, she wasn’t his wife.

 

_Not yet._ He decided.

 

“They’re discharging you,” She said, breathless as she pulled away from him.

 

“When?” He sounded worried, not ready to part from her. Not yet.

 

She smiled, as if she could read his mind, “Today and we’re going to go to our flat in town for you to recover, London can wait,”

 

He nodded, a little too enthusiastically. Their flat, here – not really theirs, yet, he didn’t care. He needed her and he wasn’t going to let her go, he wondered if he could go back to finish what he started when his broken bones heal.

 

“Don’t over think it,” She whispered, leaning to kiss him again.

 

He didn’t. Not even one bit. He decided to simply kiss her back.

 

He got used to it, being with her. It was simple and calming. They spent most of the days in. She would cook and he would sit in the chair helping her chop random vegetables. He would tell her of what he did, what he had to do – he couldn’t lie, she had simply nodded, squeezing his hand, not even repulsed. Some days, they would just lie on the couch, reading quietly. And she was always there for all his treatments, physiotherapy, doctor’s appointments – always.

 

And he got used to kissing her.

 

Then reality sets in.

 

“Tomorrow,” She said as they ate their breakfast in silence.

 

He wished tomorrow wouldn’t come. He wished he was this Mr Scott W. Hooper and Molly A. Hooper was really his wife. Yet, he knew better.

 

He reached for her hand, squeezing her fingers gently so. He knew words meant nothing. There wasn’t anything he could say to make their parting easier, not even a promise that he would return. Instead, he fiddled with the ring on her finger. The engagement ring that was snug perfectly above her wedding ring.

 

“The ring,” He said, bringing her fingers to his mouth, kissing it gently, “Did I ever tell you it was my grandmother’s?”

 

She let out an audible gasp, “No!”

 

She was quick, making a move to remove the object from her hand, but, he stopped her. His eyes fixed on her and she was lost for words.

 

“Keep it,” He told her, “Keep it safe until I come back to ask you properly instead of this charade,”

 

She blinked, breath caught in her throat.

 

He was making a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

 

\--

 

They left the next morning, hand in hand, standing awkwardly between two cars with tinted windows. He leaned, pressing his forehead onto hers.

 

“I love you, don’t forget that,” He told her in a hushed whisper – their secret.

 

She nodded slowly; she didn’t need him to repeat the words. Yet, he had been repeating it endlessly since the day before; as if he was afraid he would never get to say it again.

 

“Come back, okay?” She asked.

 

He didn’t answer.

 

He pressed a kiss onto her lips one last time before he turned, slipping into the cold exterior of the car. She watches as the vehicle took him away from her, disappearing beyond the turns before she entered the car that was prepared for her.

 

\--

 

She wore his rings around her neck; she got a necklace long enough that the two rings would be hidden under her shirt when she was at work. When she got home, however, she would pull them out and placed it on her finger again.

 

It was his promise.

 

\--

 

He never took off his ring. It was the one thing he couldn’t bear to part with. It’s a reminder that the two months was not a dream and she was really there. And he did get to say what he needed to say.

 

\--

 

She waited.

 

\--

 

He braved one blow after another. It was the last task, the last link he needed to bring down before he could return – to her.

 

“Now listen to me, there's an underground terrorist network active in London, and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over. Brother dear. Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.” A familiar voice, the voice he knew despite the fact the man hadn’t spoken a word in English until then.

 

A smirk. Home. Time to go home.

 

\--

 

“Yes, would you stop worrying, she’d say yes,” Molly said holding the mobile closer to her mouth, worried of anyone eavesdropping even when she was surrounded only by the dead.

 

“No, you’ll be fine,” She assured her friend.

 

\--

 

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Mycroft inquired, curious as to why Sherlock hadn’t asked about the most important person.

 

“I don’t need to,” Sherlock replied dismissively.

 

Mycroft smirked, “You sound so certain,”

 

“Am I wrong?” Sherlock asked in return. He knew he wasn’t wrong; he didn’t even need to deduce Mycroft for that.

 

“No,” Mycroft conceded, “She is exactly where she had always been,”

 

\--

 

He didn’t mean to creep up on her, he really was going to say hello. But, he just wanted to watch her just for a little longer. He smiled, watching her ponytail bounced as she walked – a mildly terrible day then.

 

He stood too close, fascinated by her. He was about to call her name, when she opened her locker and noticed him standing behind her. He startled her, for a moment.

 

“Sherlock,” She breathed his name.

 

And he felt as if he started to come alive again. He reached out to her, pulling her to him, engulfing her into a hug that could have mold them together. She was real, she was there in his arms and for the first time he felt safe. She made him felt safe.

 

He broke the embrace, pulling himself away just enough to frame her face with his palm, “Molly, my Molly,”

 

\--

 

She passed him a bag of cold peas, chuckling as she did so, “I did told you to take it easy,”

 

“Well, I didn’t think he’d head butt me,” Sherlock whined, pressing the cold bag to his nose, “I think it might be broken,”

 

Molly’s chuckle turned into a laugh, “Come here you big baby,”

 

“You know, I think it might feel better if you kiss it right here,” Sherlock titled his face towards Molly.

 

Her smile broadened, “Right here?” She gave him a soft peck on his nose.

 

“Here too,” Sherlock said, pointing at his lips.

 

She obliged, leaning to kiss him, it was meant to be a short kiss – but, as always, Sherlock had other ideas.

 

\--

 

“You knew,” John said, his tone was filled with hurt.

 

Molly nodded, unsure of what she could say to make it better, “Yes,”

 

“You couldn’t have told me,” He said, throwing his arms in the air. He was stuck between several mixed emotions.

 

“I couldn’t,” She replied, feeling sorrier by the minute.

 

He sighed, “Molly, you were miserable, if you’ve just told me,”

 

“Not always, it’s the not knowing that hurt,” She admitted. Her fingers were fiddling with the chain around her neck, still hiding the ring given to her by Sherlock.

 

“He’s my friend, but, I’m not sure he deserves you,” John said, pointing at the chain around Molly’s neck, “It’s from him, am I right?”

 

A smile spread on her face, she wanted to tell John everything, but, wasn’t sure of how much she could say, “He’s not so bad,”

 

John shook his head.

 

“No, he’s not,” He agreed.

 

\--

 

“Sherlock, could you please focus for a minute,” Molly whined. In her hands was one of the letter Sherlock had wrote her while he was away. The letter that never quite finished, but, Sherlock had brought it back with him. She wanted to sit and talk about with him, yet, Sherlock was more interested in the present, the fact that he was back, the fact that she was with him.

 

“Hmm... On what?” He replied, nibbling on her ear. He had successfully pulled her to sit on his lap from where she original sat, the further end of the sofa. He was trying very hard to distract her from the letters of which he finally decided to give her – if only they could call them letters, they were hardly a couple of words long.

 

A wolf whistle finally put a stop on Sherlock’s ministration, the pair looked up simultaneously, finding a very amused Mary Morstan with John Watson who was wearing an expression no one could really put into words – and if they have to, he looked nothing short of someone who was going to be sick.

 

Molly was as red as a tomato, shoving the letter than was in her hand under a cushion and was up on her feet before Sherlock could so much as stop her from stalking away into the kitchen. He pouted, unhappy with the lost of contact.

 

“You have a room, you know,” John mumbled, quite surprised by what he had just seen.

 

“My flat, my rule,” Sherlock replied easily.

 

“Oh, let them be. I think it’s kind of sweet,” Mary beamed, taking a seat in one of the chair a client usually sat in.

 

John sighed, knowing there was no way he was ever going to win this. The best way was probably getting used to the fact that Sherlock and Molly in a relationship and fast.

 

“Not that I am not glad for surprise company, but, what are you two doing here?” Sherlock asked boringly.

 

“Sherlock!” Molly berated him from the kitchen.

 

Mary had simply giggle, pulling out an envelope from her bag, handing it to Sherlock. He took it with a confused look on his face, only to have the expression to change to surprised when he opened it.

 

“Wasn’t quite sure whether we should address it to Mr and Mrs Sherlock Holmes or Mr Sherlock Holmes and Miss Molly Hooper,” Mary teased easily, pointing at the ring on Sherlock’s finger which, if she was going to guess, the pair was hanging on a chain under Molly’s shirt.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat, spotting Molly coming back into the living area with a tray of tea and biscuits. He watched her placed the tray gingerly on the table before claiming his chair instead of joining him back on the sofa.

 

“It’s Miss Molly Hooper,” Molly said helpfully, but, regretted it as soon as she did as the couple joining them started to laugh.

 

Molly shot Sherlock a look, clearly irritated at him for refusing to take off the ring they had used for a cover so that she could be with him during his recovery period.

 

“Well, we can fix that today, I only need to give Mycroft a call,” Sherlock said, clearly pulling Molly’s leg.

 

She rolled her eyes at him, “How very romantic,”

 

“If you wanted romance, Miss Hooper, you wouldn’t have sought a man like me,” He added, still not done yanking her chain.

 

Of course he had something planned. He always had, even when it seemed like he didn’t. It shouldn’t change for any aspect of his life, especially when it came to asking the love of his life to marry him.

 

Molly was about to say something else, but, John spoke before she could, “Okay, I’m not sure how to say this,”

 

“You can start by choosing your words, John,” Sherlock stated boringly, his hand was reaching out for Molly’s and she batted his away.

 

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes, “I’m in need of a best man,”

 

“Well, I’m sure there’s a pool to choose from, perhaps Lestrade or Anderson even,” Sherlock blabbered away.

 

Mary and Molly exchanged a quick look, each knew without using a word; ‘he’s an idiot,’

 

“Yes, they’re all great, but, they’re not my best friend,” John sounded frustrated.

 

“Perhaps K –” Sherlock went on, throwing names, forcing John to cut his rambling short.

 

“You, Sherlock. You’re my best friend,” He said as quickly as it could, letting the information sink into the consulting detective’s head.

 

And Sherlock gave the shortest, one word respond that wasn’t even a word, “Oh,”

 

“Yup,” John’s hand was flailing. If he was honest, asking Mary to marry him was definitely a walk in a park; at least she understood his intentions.

 

Molly moved from her chair, making her way to sit next to Sherlock, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as soon as she sat.

 

“Dear Sherlock, are you still here?” She called him gently.

 

Sherlock turned, blinking rapidly at Molly before looking back at the two guests. They didn’t understand what the meaning of Molly’s chosen words, yet, he noted how Mary was beaming. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that he had given the letters to Molly.

 

\--

 

“Are you offended that Mary didn’t choose you as her bridesmaid?” Sherlock asked, running his fingers gently on Molly’s exposed arm.

 

She shook her head, “No, I saw the colour she picked and am glad I’m just going as a guest,”

 

“No, you’re going as my date,” Sherlock said quickly, pulling her ever closer.

 

\--

 

“You’re not supposed to be more nervous than the groom,” Molly said, brushing Sherlock’s collar lightly.

 

“I’d mess up the speech, I know I would,” He replied, running a finger in the space between the shirt collar and his neck.

 

She smiled, “Look at me, focus on me,”

 

He did. And he liked to think he did alright.

 

\--

 

“Are you ever going to ask the woman to marry you?” Mary asked, sliding up to Sherlock who was watching Molly and Mrs Hudson talking on the other side of the room.

 

A gentleman joined the two, making Sherlock uncomfortable, anxiously wanting to walk up to Molly. Luckily for him, he didn’t have to. Lestrade, one of the people who were fully aware of the relationship between the consulting detective and the pathologist practically diffused the gentleman’s attempt of flirtation.

 

“The British government should give him a medal,” John said, finally joining Mary and Sherlock after he finished his discussion with an old friend.

 

Sherlock scoffed.

 

“Ask her,” John urged, “She’s got better offer than you, mate,”

 

\--

 

He kept her eyes on her the entire day, even when she was standing by his side, he could never quite look away. She was breathtaking in her dress. Yellow, he wasn’t even surprised she would pick the dress. It was simply and so very her. When he had to go up to play John and Mary their waltz, he was almost regretful that he had to leave her side.

 

“Ask me,” She said, looking at him expectantly.  


For a moment, he thought she meant to ask her hand in marriage, but, she was simply nodding to the dance floor.

 

“Would you like to dance, Miss Hooper?” He held out his hand to her.

 

She smiled, slipping her hand into his, “I thought you’d never ask, Mr Holmes,”

 

He held her close, swaying to the music, feeling his heartbeat slowed down significantly. He was at ease, he felt completely at home with her in his arms. And it hit him, he didn’t need the grand gesture – she never expected him to be that kind of man.

 

“Sherlock?” Her voice was filled with concerned.

 

He was well aware that they had stopped moving, even when the slow music was still playing.

 

“Come with me,” He said, giving her hand a gentle tug.

 

She followed, even when she was puzzled by his sudden mood change. Sure, she was used to him and his mood swings by now, still, there are moments where he could still surprised her.

 

They stopped just outside, in the garden that was illuminated by the moonlight and small light bulbs. It was a perfect setting of a romantic movie, where the man would profess his love to the woman. Yet, Molly already knew how Sherlock felt about her. He said it often; he said it frequently that he loved her. It was more than she had ever expected the consulting detective would ever do.

 

“Molly Hooper,” He said, gently.

 

“Yes,” She said with a smile.

 

He slowly dropped to one knee, something he never thought he would ever do, but, her audible gasp was enough to tell him that it was worth it. He reached into his coat pocket with his free hand, unwilling to let go the hold he had on her.

 

“Marry me,”

 

Two simple words. Just two simple words, just a question, but, it was enough to bring Molly to tears.

 

“Nicked it when you we’re looking,” He explained, expertly opening the box with one hand.

 

His grandmother’s ring sat beautiful in the velvet box. The ring she had worn for two months as his ‘wife’ and continued to wear on a chain around her neck until this morning when she realized she couldn’t have it on her with the dress she had chosen to wear.

 

“Okay,” She managed.

 

He was quick, even with trembling hands he still managed to slide the ring back onto Molly’s ring finger, its rightful place. And he kissed her, like he never did before, breathless and glad.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” He mumbled, forehead pressed onto hers.

 

She hummed, her eyes were closed, “Can’t, John and Mary,”

 

“They’ll understand,” He replied.

 

\--

 

They giggled like a couple of teenagers as they raced towards the car. He kissed her again, soundly against the vehicle before opening the door for her. He looked forward to it, a life with her, because it was infinitely better than the days without her.

 

“This is a bit cliché,” Molly commented as Sherlock backed out of the parking space.

 

“Cliché is driving into the sun like in movies you love to watch so much. But, Miss Hooper, we’re looking for the nearest guesthouse and I don’t plan on leaving even for national security,” Sherlock winked at her.

 

Molly could only laugh. She knew Sherlock had been paying attention to her sappy old movies even when he said he wasn’t.

 

“I think there’s one around the corner,” She replied helpfully.

 

\--

 

“Have you seen Sherlock and Molly?” Mrs Hudson asked, craning her neck for the couple. A man around her age had his arms wrapped around her waist.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Mrs Hudson,” Mary replied.

 

 


End file.
